Ripples
by Bloody Mary
Summary: There were a myriad threads upon which the fate of the Galaxy hung. Some of them were momentous events, others were just tiny everyday decisions. Some of those choices are made by the great, like the Emperor of Mankind, while others, but people whose names are meant to be forgotten, like a slaver from Nuceria - the planet where the Primarch Angron will grow up.
1. Chapter 1

**Ripples**

_Chapter One_

There were a myriad threads upon which the fate of the Galaxy hung. Some of them were momentous events, others were just tiny everyday decisions. Illyna never learned that the fact that she chose to make her provisions a day earlier, and left with Aharon, Javan and Tamar into the wilderness half an hour earlier was one such event.

When she reached the feet of the mountains, she did not find an exhausted boy and corpses of the alien raiders that occasionally plagued her world. Instead, she saw the child fight.

Though she had witnessed many a gladiator in the grip of the Nails, the savage beauty of combat that she saw on that day was something that gripped her heart. The slender figures moved like dancers, and yet, they could not avoid the savagery of the little boy. His screams were terrible—they gripped her heart in an almost inexplicable way. Despite the almost physical pain the howls of pain and fury caused her, she did not dare interfere. There was something about the way he fought that took her breath away and rooted her in place.

Only when all the aggressors were dead and the child had collapsed, did Illyna leave her hiding place, Tamar and Javan on her heels. Her approach was hesitant, but she did not intend to leave the boy behind.

She approached slowly, her heartbeat and the rustling of grass being crumpled under her feet preternaturally loud in her ears. Though she knew better, she could not help but to imagine the bloody, torn figures picking their broken bodies up and striking her down. There was something eerie, wrong about how they were built: almost human, but entirely alien at the same time. Their blood sparkled in the sun, like jewels, and the smell was also subtly wrong, missing the familiar coppery tang.

She picked her way between the corpses and torn limbs until she found the boy. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned to the side. Scabbed gashes covered his cheeks and forehead, with deeper wounds marring his oddly muscular body. Up close, he also looked alien, though in a different way: his proportions were those of a toddler, but at the same time his body was corded with the hard muscle of a gladiator. Illyna had thought him to be six, judging by his size, but now her guess appeared to be absurd.

But Illyna followed her impulse and knelt down to inspect the small body before her. Most of the wounds did not appear fresh at all—had she not seen them being inflicted moments ago, the slaver would have judged them to be a week old or even older.

"He's going to fetch a nice price," Tamar said. "Skilled fighter, heals bloody fast…"

With a start, Illyna looked to her companion. She was right—a find like this would be a sin to waste. She had needs, Javan had his mother and Tamar her children to think of.

Before her, the boy started stirring. The movements were slight, quite like those of a dreaming child. Not wanting to wake him, Illyna turned to Javan and raised her hands. She grabbed her wrist, indicating he should fetch the irons. The boy was dangerous, and it was best if he came bound, least he tried to escape.

* * *

Or kill them.

Combat.

The world of a gladiator was combat: true in the red sands, and practice to prepare for it. It was all the boy knew. His first memory was of violence, of pain—causing it and receiving it. Bitter irony tinged his thoughts now—his fondest memory was of a moment when he had nearly died, of a thousand lacerations and their sting, of being stabbed and cut… After that, he did not remember being free. Though the concept brought a set of other, more abstract associations. In the end what mattered was that: life was pain and freedom was the choice between fighting through the agony, or letting it consume you.

Now, the only freedom he had was the freedom to die. Still, even so, he could choose better than those he fought with and slept among. Unlike them, he did not know the kiss of the Nails. They did not buzz in his mind, driving him towards violence. His ferocity was already unquestioned. His strength prodigious. And his age did not matter.

He was Angron, the child-gladiator.

Almost without conscious thought, he twisted out of the way of the other gladiator. She towered over him—she towered almost everyone. Veins stood out on her arms and neck as she heaved her heavy mace, but she was too slow. Before she could take another swing, he had kicked her legs out from under her.

He had been carefully not to break them—it was growing more difficult not to cause permanent harm with every day. Still, the gladiatrix toppled over like a felled tree, a string of curses mixed with pained hisses leaving her mouth, as he retreated to the side of the arena, just as he had been taught. This was only a sparring, with no audience that would demand blood. He'd have ample opportunity to break bones and spill vital fluids on another day.

A thin slave-child passed him a cup of water. Though he did not feel particular thirst, he accepted it. There was no reason for him not to, and he didn't want his masters to realize he was more resilient to thirst than the other gladiators. Let them think he needed as many breaks as they did. He sipped the tepid liquid, and watched his brothers and sisters practice their own skills. He smelled blood around him and heard clang of weapons, and screams of his brothers and sisters. The water tasted of copper.

The sands would drink well today, despite the lack of screaming audience.

Angron's fist balled over the cup, causing it crumple and crack as if were made from a much less durable material than metal. That his brothers and sisters would die for the enjoyment of others caused his choler to rise, and only with the greatest effort could he stop himself from mindlessly lashing out. If he did, it would change little…

No. Once he did lash out, it would have to be a beginning of a new era, not a futile gesture of an angry child.

* * *

The world Ala'ra had known for the five years of her life had started crumbling shortly after her birthday. Her father and mother both looked different—strained and nervous, when they thought she couldn't see them. Her nanny had disappeared, as well as a number of servants. The food had become simpler.

She had heard the name Angron murmured with fear, and she caught snatches of conversations where the words "revolt" were falling freely and frequently. Though she was young and did not understand what exactly was eating away her security, she knew there was something terrible lurking in the shadows. Her dreams were filled with blood-covered monsters, and shadows coming to life for weeks before all fell apart.

Her mother woke her up early in the morning, and when Ala'ra complained she wanted to sleep gave her a brittle smile that made the girl want cry. She smelled smoke, and heard a shouting coming from outside. She whimpered and sniffled, "I'm scared!"

For a moment, she found herself in a tight embrace. Then, once she was calm again, her mother withdrew. Behind her, her father was standing. His smile was equally false.

"You will be safe, love," he said. "Bad people… want to hurt us, and that's why we have to hide you. Once everything is okay and the bad people are gone, we will come back for you."

"Eunike will take you with her," her mother said, placing her be-ringed plump hand on the meaty shoulder of the cook. "You will play pretend with her—everybody has to think you're her niece."

Ala'ra looked at the woman, who offered her another fake smile. There was fear in all the adults, coiled like a small animal wanting to bolt.

"I don't want to!" Ala'ra protested. She wanted things to be like they were. She wanted her nanny back. The world should not refuse to accommodate to her—it had before, hadn't it?

"Eunike, please," she heard her mother whisper.

The large woman gathered her into her arms. She smelled of soap and food mostly, with a hint of sweat. Unlike her nanny or her mother. There was no perfume on her.

Ala'ra kicked her and bit her arm, but the strong arms never let her go, as she was carried out. The last glimpse she had of her parents was her mother turning away and her father hiding his face in his hands.

* * *

Somebody always started a fire. Angron had come to expect it. There was something cleansing about it—the flames took all away, leaving only ashes. This time, though, he was quite certain it had been accident. There was always something that could be knocked over.

He wasn't sure why it annoyed him—was it the waste of resources, or was it simply that as much as he would never reject his brothers and sisters, they would always remain unruly? Or perhaps, it was the fact that he no longer simply led them? That he had people who had never bled on the red sands under his command, and though they were willing to fight his war, they still had no proven themselves?

Still, the fire was a symptom of a larger, underlying problem. He had the hearts of his army: he knew they'd follow him to the death, but he had little control over it, once he let it loose. And this would not do, if he wanted to achieve something. In fact, he should not call them an army at all. They were a mob, and sheer charisma, or the righteousness of their cause would not teach them control.

There was a crack, as the mansion started falling apart. The flames had finally damaged its structure, and the roof had collapsed. Soon, more would follow, until only the blackened walls would remain.

Angron gnashed his teeth. The paperskins that called it home did not deserve a grand funeral pyre like this. Next time, he would lead an army. Next time, the true reckoning would start.

* * *

The former rulers of Nuceria stood before Angron. Once, they would have watched him bleed and for them, but today, he was the master, and their fates were in his hands. He wondered if they feared what they had taught him. Certainly, they knew terror—he smelled it in their sweat, heard in their breathing and saw it in their eyes.

Their regime was over, and they were all that remained of the cancer that was eating the world that had born them. Without them, the planet would have a future. There would be no slaves. There would be no Nails. The red sands would dry out.

"You need us," one of the paperskins said. He tried to keep his voice firm, but it faltered nevertheless—the plea for mercy was there, even if it was meant to disguised as a statement. "Without us, there will be anarchy. Chaos. Let us live, and we will help you bring order back."

His first instinct was to smash the wretch's head. How dare he beg for his life? How dare he call his injustice order?

And yet, he reined his choler. It was no easy task—deep in his bones, he knew what he had been bred to kill, and violence came naturally to him, just as breathing. But he was more than this. For those that called him their liberator, he was a symbol. If he showed no self control, neither would they. If he'd strike now, when he had promised justice, he'd be shatter what he had been striving for. There could be no true freedom, if one could not speak.

As he pushed his anger away, he weighed the words of the high rider.

They needed their skills. That was true—his brothers and sisters would forever remain trained killers. Those that had joined later came from the hives, and the farms, but at best, they were factoria-overseers. They had no idea about economy, or politics.

But did this mean they had to keep the bastards alive? There were other ways to learn—ways that not involve trusting people, who knew they would die once they had nothing left to teach.

"I'd risk chaos, rather than trust you," he growled. "You were slavers. You watched us die, and none of you ever tried to bring and end to it. We had to do it on our own. And now, we will rule ourselves without you. We will do what you were never fit to do."

Those he led may have had no knowledge of governing a world, but he did. Just like secrets of machines, chemistry and physics had all been locked in his mind and waited to be used, so were thousands of political theories. And what he knew, he could teach.

"That's your justice, you over-grown bastard?" the woman next to the first speaker shrieked. She had been an officer, judging by her dirty and torn uniform. Angron let her speak, his hand up to stall any attempts at violence. The fact that she had enough courage to insult him, deserved some credit. "That's why we should have had Nails put in your brain too! I hope you all burn! I hope you will see everything fall apart!"

"You will all die," Angron replied. "I care little if you think I'm unfair, but know this—this world will neither wither, not burn in your absence. It will become something you would never have imagined. And you will never see it."

For the first time, since the proceeding had started, he smiled. "We will build a world order that is not built on the blood of the innocent."

"What about all the innocent you butchered? About our children who never did anyone any harm? About those who never watched a fight and who spent their days protesting in the streets? This new empire of yours is built on their blood, just as it is on ours." The officer's tirade ended when she took a step forward, only for a gladiator's sword to bar her way.

Angron's smile faltered. Had he not thought the same at times? When did justice end, and vengeance start? But then, he knew the answers to those words—he had answered his own doubts many times.

"If we had not acted, nothing would have changed," he said. "Perhaps, one day, you'd all have had an epiphany and changed your ways. But before that more blood would have been spilled. Or perhaps it would have kept on flowing forever. But this ends today. There never was another choice we could have made."

"That was what we said, when we decided Blood and Circuses was the only way to keep the peace. You are no better than we are and soon you will learn that," the first speaker joined. His voice had grown stronger, and there was something in the expressions of his companions that showed they weren't feeling as powerless as before. This was something they understood, what they had been trained to do. Likely, they had read books and written them on how right they were.

"Say whatever makes you feel better about yourself," Angron spat.

"It's us versus them," the officer hissed spitefully. "Always. And it always justifies blood. You think you break the cycle? Think again. Politics is about friends and foes and the one who is the most ruthless wins. You won. But don't think you are better. You beat us at our game."

Angron snorted. Again, he had to fight himself to stay calm. Did they truly think those words could make him reconsider? Or perhaps they wanted to goad him, to strike them and show himself to be a savage? In that case he would disappoint them.

"Those are your rules, not mine. You might claim to know me, but you don't. Only the future will show if I am better than you. And that is a future you will not see. Go to your deaths with that knowledge. You will never see how wrong you were and how guilty that makes you."

* * *

**AN**

I finally managed to get around rewriting Ripples. I've been thinking about it ever since ADB wrote it wasn't possible to take out the Butcher's Nails without killing Angron, and while I could have decided "screw that" and kept on writing, it didn't really feel right, given that the idea was more to stick to canon while changing things, if that makes any sense.

So, instead, I decided to simply have Angron never get the Nails, while still being a gladiator. Which, quite naturally changed his story a lot.


	2. Chapter 2

It was as if there was something important he could almost recall, but whenever he tried to reach for it, it would retreat into the depths of his consciousness. The sensation was disconcerting for one that never forgot—he could remember the pain of his awakening from the crashed pod, and every hit he landed on the alien raiders on the first day of his life—and yet now, there was something he ought to know, but didn't.

Suddenly, he rose from his chair, nearly turning over his desk. Data slates and paper scattered away from his hands, but he paid them no heed. Swiftly, almost as if charging at the door, he marched out of the room that now served as his office—he, Angron, the gladiator, had an office and had been using it for years, which never ceased to amaze him.

He wasn't a gladiator at all any more.

Sunlight warmed his face and shoulders, as he stepped out of the building. As always when he appeared, a ring of petitioners appeared. No matter how much he tried, he could never convince people not to treat him like some sort of a supernatural hero. It still irked him, and on this day in particular.

He looked up, half expecting to find something in the sky. For a moment, it seemed empty, and then… then, he noticed that there was something. A shape up high, one that likely no one else would notice. There was something large in the orbit.

When a young man rushed out to announce there were people from an Imperium of Mankind coming to Nuceria, Angron was hardly surprised at all.

* * *

Had it just been an Imperium of Mankind that found Nuceria matters would have been easier. It would have been politics—nothing personal. But life was never so easy. The man who named himself the Emperor of Mankind, also claimed to be Angron's father. The sun reflected from the golden plates of his armour, making him almost glow. Angron had to squint to look at him. A trickle of sweat dripped down his back, and his scalp itched under the mass of dreadlocks. The Emperor seemed unbothered, as if he had been born from the sun and the heat.

The air smelled of fuel, likely from the golden craft that brought the men in golden armour. Under his feet, through his sandals, Angron felt how hot the surface was. It was not a day for standing around in the sun and discussing politics.

Angron swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. His mind was full of questions, buzzing like angry flies around a carcass.

"Why didn't you come earlier?"

"Why did you abandon me?"

"I don't need a father any more."

"Are you trying to blind me with this armour?"

"Can we get inside before we drown in my sweat?"

But he never said any of it. Those were the words of a child that had long ago drowned in blood. The slave-boy clutching his axe tightly and watching his brothers and sisters die for the enjoyment of others. But the bitter child had grown up long ago, and learned that the world does not revolve around his needs and wants.

So, instead, he asked, "What's your name?"

It earned him an arched eyebrow, followed by a warm smile. The man who called himself Emperor and Angron's father shook his head, and said, "I've had too many for them to have any value."

"A man without a name has no identity," Angron replied. "A man who will not tell his name to his son, does not trust his son."

"Than there is two of us," the Emperor answered, an undertone of chiding in his voice. "You do not trust me, and will not call me father."

It was a valid observation, though Angron wondered if the man was trying to turn the tables on him, and make him lose his footing in the discussion. So, instead of trying retaliate with an accusation, he opted to use the simple truth instead.

"I've just met you," he replied. "I… know that I carry your genetic material, but that does not make you my father. My fathers and mothers died, while you were away. Perhaps it's not your fault. I don't know. Perhaps one day I will call you father. Not today."

The Emperor looked at him. It felt odd to find himself under such scrutiny, and with a start, Angron realized he expected others to be in awe with him. But now, now he was before someone who was something more than he was: buried under the ancient rubble of a tower that had once scraped the skies, being crushed by the weight of stones that ought to have crumbled to dust long ago.

Then, the sense of being dissected and valued passed, and Angron could reason again.

"I see," the Emperor said, and Angron fought the urge to shudder.

* * *

He did not stay for long on Nuceria. There had been no great celebrations to mark the day on which the planet officially joined the Imperium of Mankind. The XIIth was not a man given to ostentation, it seemed, and insisted that a public address by him and the Emperor would be enough. The Master of Mankind agreed—it was Angron's planet, not his. The newly rediscovered Primarch would know best.

The day had passed, and Angron was becoming acquainted with his Legion aboard the Conqueror. The Emperor saw no reason to accompany him during this—his son did not need to be held by his hand. Instead, he had retreated to the Imperator Somnis to consider his next steps.

In the end, he thought he had reasons to be satisfied with Angron. How he had conquered Nuceria may have not been ideal, but it had been efficient, and ruling a world seemed to have disabused him of some illusions at least. But he had made all of his sons to be strong-minded creatures, and so there were other naïve views that Angron had managed to cling to, which would make it harder for him to lead his Legion.

However, that could be remedied.

The man, who called himself the Emperor of Mankind, rose from an ornate chair, he had been occupying. He picked up a dataslate from his desk, fingers brushing against the ancient scarred wood. It was a solid piece of furniture with a long history. A lot of it was irrelevant, like the "But Mona Lisa just keeps on smiling" someone had scratched out with a nail ages ago on the wooden surface.

The display of the dataslate flickered to life, and a tree of data bloomed to life. Names of various Astartes of the War Hounds built a complex spider-web. Once he clicked on a name, more data appeared—noteworthy battles, won duels…

All of this would be provided to Angron as well. One could not lead a Legion if they did not know those he led. He would grow more experienced, but it did not guarantee that he would learn the lessons he needed to.

People said that some lessons one had to learn on his own, but rarely did they mention that there were those that one could only learn from others. The question he truly needed to consider was who would be the suitable teacher.

He put the dataslate down, and started toying with the old worn ring on his pinky finger. The Sagittary was worn, barely visible, but still there… Almost unconsciously, he smiled—he could not help but to remember Horus, with all his enthusiasm and easy charm. But as fond as he was of his Dreadful Sagittary, he had to admit that he would not be the best choice. Undoubtedly, he would win Angron in the end—had he not befriended Mortarion already? But it would take time to convince the former gladiator that he was more than a privileged child.

The same reasons forced him to discard Fulgrim—the Phoenician's charm was urbane, cultured, and Angron had been taught to associate ornamentation and sophistication with idleness and weakness.

No, charm would not win Angron. Something else would be needed, and the Emperor thought he knew who'd be the right one.

* * *

Wryly, Angron thought that some things never changed. The XIIth Legion might have been transhuman, but they were an army, and they needed to be addressed. They needed to see their new leader, and hear from him where they would be headed.

There would be changes.

His eyes roamed over the enormous chamber, where almost all of the Astartes on _Adamant Resolve_ had gathered to listen to him. Save for the figures in blue and white, it was empty, its only adornment the banners with the emblems of the War Hounds and the Army regiments that fought at their side on the walls. A collared hound reared on many of them; a proud proclamation of blind devotion. The same symbol stood proudly on every left pauldron of the men gathered before him.

"You have searched for me, and you have found me," he said. All the eyes in the cavernous chamber were on him, staring with the same hope and wonder. Like children to a father. "From today on, the XIIth is no longer without a Primarch. I will lead you, so that we may liberate worlds from the misguided and the xeno."

He cast his gaze across the chamber once again, noting that the attention directed at him did not waver. Each and every Astartes watched him with undivided attention, their gazes keen, their posture indicating he was the most important being for them. "But you will not come to all those worlds as attack dogs, shackled and unleashed by a distant master. You are human, and you will think for yourselves. You will evaluate, you will question. I do not want hounds at my heel, I want human beings at my side."

There was a dissonance between his words and what he was about to do, but an army could not be lead by committee. It needed orders, it needed one leader at its head. Nevertheless, he did not intend to let this reality become an excuse to shackle others to himself. Especially not beings as eager to do as much at the mere word from him.

"When I lead my brothers and sisters on Nuceria, those who stood against us had called us Eaters of Cities. They saw us as blind force, destroyers and killers—but in the end, we have brought them to justice and shown that those who destroy can also create."

Though none of the Legionnaires had uttered a word since he had started speaking, somehow the chamber had grown even more silent. There was an expectation, an uncertainty in the air like an electric current running through all of the gathered warriors before him.

"This is why, you will no longer be War Hounds, but World Eaters," he said. "Let it be a name that those unfit to rule and join the Imperium fear, and one that will fill those that need us with a hope for a better future."

The warriors before him crossed their hands on their chests, making the sign of Aquila. They accepted his decision without questions or protest, and though the Emperor had told him he could rename his Legion, and that the other Primarchs had done so too, he still felt a pang of unease.

Just how easy was it to become a tyrant, if no one ever questioned you?

* * *

The _Imperator Somnis_ left the system first, the Emperor's own fleet following behind. Incandescent light spilled into the Materium, as the Warp was torn open and bathed the ships of the 13th Expeditionary Fleet in its unreality. Like a pack of hounds following their master's command, the _Adamant Resolve_ and her companion vessels powered into the Warp gate.

Though her viewports were hidden behind screens that shielded the crew from gazing into the unreality of the Immaterium, Angron's attention was fixed on one of them as they translated. Just moments ago, the world that had shaped him and which he had shaped in turn had been there, spinning in the darkness.

The Emperor had told him that were uncountable others that were just like Nuceria had been. Mankind was at the brink—a push, and it would be forgotten. A shove, and it would rise above all else.

He thought of the slender xenos raiders that had tried to end his life just as it had begun. He had destroyed them instead, but he still could easily imagine what happened with those that had neither his strength nor resilience.

_United we stand, divided we fall_.

How many times did Mankind repeat those words? And yet, they rang true now—and though he could not put his full trust in the Emperor, he was going to stand by him.

He turned away from the viewport and looked around the bridge. He wasn't sure what made him think back to the trial of the High Riders—perhaps the decorative uniform of the ships's captain? Would he have ruled differently today, and chosen to let them live as a necessary evil? Without the knowledge of economy, of law, of so many other complex concepts, the people of Nuceria had to stumble blindly, and learn what those in power had been taught as children for generations. Without them, there was chaos. They had to learn that just growing food was not enough to feed all. That those who only knew violence would not throw it away, and without an enemy without would find one within to turn upon. Those who had suffered, kept on lashing out at those who had not or had suffered less.

The fall of the new order had not been a seamless transition into a new one. Its children turned upon each other, seeking to take out their frustrations and quarrels in the guise of tearing the remains of the High Riders rule.

The woman had been right, all those years ago. There was blood on his hands—of his brothers and sisters, who died in battle, and later took their own lives, having lost the one reason to live they had. Of those who starved, and of those killed for having more than the others. Perhaps if he'd let a few of the High Riders live, the tally of his revolution would not have been as large.

He did not know the answer, nor did could he tell if he was making the right choice or the wrong. All that was left to him was to move forward and see where the road he had chosen would lead him.

* * *

**AN: **And so Angron learns cleaning up never ends.

Also, before you point it out-the flagship of the World Eaters was called Adamant Resolve, before it was called the Conqueror. And I decided with how Angron has developed he might find the name Conqueror to be one that sends the wrong message. I'm pretty sure no one will mention it makes little sense when you're Legion is called World Eaters.


	3. Chapter 3

After a week on Terra, Angron was starting to suspect mankind invented space travel to escape from it. It was a silly impression, one he logically knew to be completely inaccurate, and yet he could not shake it off. The world was barren, and though he refused to dismiss the whole population by calling it dead, there was a sense of... heaviness? Suffocating weight of history, almost like the feeling he had when he found himself under the gaze of the Emperor.

He would soon leave it, though. There were other worlds like Nuceria, where those in power had built a system that abused it, and then there were those, where xenos had made slaves of the humans. Though he could not bring himself to call the Emperor his father, he had to accept that the galaxy needed to be remade, and the Emperor had a vision of how to do it. And if Angron joined, if he led his Legion, he could influence this vision. Push it into the right direction.

However, those were plans for the future, and before he would be able to start realizing them, he had to get through other things. Apparently, even if one created a set of generals and implanted the appropriate knowledge, they still needed an apprenticeship. It did make sense—the IIIrd—Fulgrim, for example, had been some sort of an administrator, and hadn't conquered a thing, before the Emperor had rediscovered him. The VIIIth—Konrad Curze—who had been discovered just before Angron—had done the conquering on his own, and had not commanded any armies.

And he would not be building something from scratch, like he had on Nuceria—his World Eaters were soldiers, already. They knew discipline and if told not to burn houses down, they would obey. The difference would take some time to get used to, and having someone who already knew the ropes sounded like a good idea.

The IXth was supposed to meet him in one of the three hundred Green Rooms of the Imperial Palace. Hopefully, he wouldn't check every of them in search of Angron, who had been brought to it by one of the golden-armoured Custodes.

He turned away from one of the large windows, overlooking grey clouds, and turned to his… honour guard, he supposed. Gheer, the Legion Master, was still standing to attention and made Angron think of some sort of a bulky ugly attack dog. He even had the heavy jowls, though, thankfully, he didn't drool.

Kunnar, the 1st Company Champion, was simply pacing restlessly. The room had been clearly made with Primarchs in mind, so despite the fact that he was in power armour, he had enough free space to turn. If Gheer was dog-like in his appearance, than Kunnar was more of a large armoured lizard, with hooded eyes and skin as pale as fish's belly.

And then, there was the Eight Captain Kharn, who earned his place by means of lottery. Having not seen them in a fight, Angron had no idea how else to determine who would earn the apparently enormous honour of standing around like an idiot and being bored out of their skull with him.

Kharn had found himself a spot out of Gheer's and Kunnar's way, and was busily studying a dataslate, his bronze, horse-like face creased in concentration.

Angron peered over Kharn's head. He couldn't see too much, but he thought it was a file.

"Our main fleet has not fought beside the Blood Angels yet," Kharn said looking up. He handed Angron the dataslate. "I thought I could find out some more about them before we meet."

"And what did you learn?" Angron asked, ignoring the proffered dataslate.

Kharn said, "Their primary fiefdom is Baal along with it's two moons: Baal Primus and Baal Secunds. All are death worlds. Their Primarch—Sanguinius-"

"Really?" Angron asked, arching his eyebrows. "He changed the name of his Legion to match his?"

Gheer shook his head. "That seems unlikely—had it happened, we'd have heard rumours, sir."

"Anyway," Kharn said, glancing back at the data slate, "he's from Baal Secundus. They're assault focused, like we are—I suppose we never had campaigns together for fear we'd end up getting in each other's ways."

"Double the amount of Astartes trying to hack things," Kunnar chuckled nodding to the Eight Captain's words. "I suppose the Emperor decided with two Primarhs we won't get into 'who cuts up more enemies of mankind' contests."

"Or he wants to find out what happens if I get in such a contest with another of my kind," Angron said with a half-smile.

He did not have a chance to hear what else Kharn's dataslate had on the Blood Angels or the other Primarch, nor to continue the conversation. The door slid open, and Angron came face to face with another Primarch for the first time.

The first thing he noticed were the wings. Enormous white pinions, adorned with chains of gold and pearls. A few rubies glinted here and there, and another one rested on the newcomers forehead. Black hair spilled unto his pauldrons—his armour was golden, and the skin of some large beast was draped over it.

Wings and golden armour aside, Sanguinius was the most beautiful man Angron had seen in his life. He wasn't certain he would have thought they had a common sire, had he not been told before.

In his hands, Sanguinius had a metal box. Its was large, and decorated with subtle floral patterns.

Behind him, entered three Astartes. One of them stood out by virtue of having armour that bore many scars of battle and a sandy blond beard. The other one in red armour had a gaunt, solid face and a grey-white braid. Finally, there was one in golden armour. His hair was long and dark, while his face made Angron think of a stuck-up horse.

"Brother," Sanguinius said, inkling his head. "I'm glad to be able to finally meet you."

Angron nodded back. "Welcome," he replied. He was not certain if he was glad to see the other Primarch yet—they had just met after all. For all he knew, they could end up hating each others guts after the first pleasantries.

Despite his lukewarm greeting, Sanguinius's smile did not falter. He stepped closer and offered the box to Angron. "I made this for you. Since I didn't know what you would like, I thought I'll make something practical, and everyone needs a solid box."

Suddenly, his earlier hesitation seemed churlish—Sanguinius obviously was glad to find another of his brothers. Happy enough to give him something despite not knowing him at all, and even made it on his own. He was not sure how to react.

"Go on," Sanguinius chuckled. "Look inside."

Hesitantly, he opened the box. Inside, there were books, carefully packed so that none of them get damaged. The names seemed strangely familiar, though he had never learned any of them: Locke, Hobbes, du Tocquville, Marrana and more.

"Horus—our brother—recommended them to me just after I had been rediscovered," he explained. "They're mostly political philosophy. While I've learned a lot uniting the tribes of Baal Secundus, it did not prepare me for dealing with all the complexities of the politics of the Great Crusade."

Carefully, Angron closed the box, and put it down. Then, free to follow his impulse, he embraced Sanguinius. "I'm glad to meet you too, brother."

* * *

Fighting against someone who matched him and strength and skill was a new experience. Measuring his mettle against someone who had an additional pair of limbs was a challenge. Angron stumbled back, blood dripping from his nose, as Sanguinius turned, folding his wings.

"You didn't warn me you could do that," he said, only half-serious. Battared as he was, he couldn't help but to grin—this was exciting. Invigorating. What combat should be—not something for the rich to gawk at, now a matter of bets, but a contest between equals to gauge another's measure.

"Now, now, what would be the point of them, if I couldn't hit things with them?" Sanguinius chuckled. His grin was surprisingly feral, at odds with the previous smiles—those had been gentler, and showed none of his teeth. Now, Angron saw the flash of fangs, as his brother spoke.

"Additional place to hang baubles on?" Angron replied, swinging his axe. Sanguinius dodged, and brought his sword into a guard position.

"I could ask Ferrus Manus to build me a jewelry rack for that," he answered, as he moved into offensive. With two swift jabs, he tested Angron's guard, but he saw through Sanguinius's plan to herd him into a corner and responded with strikes of his own.

"Ask him to make a wire-ribbon for them instead," Angron shot back. "One of my sisters used to braid one into her hair. You would not want to grab that."

"What an ingenious idea," Sanguinius replied, arching his eyebrows. He parried Angron's attack, smoothly sliding into attack. However, his strike was faint, only aimed to get himself closer. With blinding speed, his hand shot out and he grabbed a fistful of red dreadlocks. "I should have used it yourself."

Angron grunted in annoyance. It should have occurred to him that someone might actually grab them, now that there were people who could actually reach his hair. But such thoughts were useless. Instead of spending more time regretting not having thought everything through, Angron slammed his fist into Sanguinius's midriff. His brother stumbled back, winded, but he did not let go of Angron's hair. He pulled him along, forcing him to bend awkwardly, so he charged, head first.

This time, his brother could not dodge—he was still reeling from the previous attack. Angron caught him, and the momentum carried them nearly into the wall. Sanguinius managed to stop him, his wings beating, as he put his whole strength in resisting Angron. He had not imagined they would be so loud, and he felt the air whistle around him every time the might pinions moved.

For a moment, they stood like this, each trying to push the other, and at the same time keep his footing. Then, they broke away. Their chests rose and fell in the same elevated rhythm, and grins split their faces. Before, Angron had seen little similarity between him and Sanguinius, but now… now he could see it.

"I had not had so much fun in a long time," Sanguinius said, assuming a more relaxed stance.

"So, the other Primarchs are duller than me?" Angron asked, massaging his scalp.

"I would not say that," his brother replied, shaking his head. "But we have rarely opportunity to meet, and even less to test ourselves against one another. The Great Crusade keeps us apart. It is rare enough that the full force of a whole Legion is needed, let alone that of several at once."

"It is… odd to call people so far away, whom I have never met, my family," Angron replied, hesitating just for a moment. He wasn't sure how his brother would react—would he be upset Angron had not been as glad to be his brother as he had been?

Sanguinius looked at him thoughtfully. For a moment, he was silent, introspective. "In time, you will learn to know all of us," he finally replied.


End file.
